Long Walks and Ruminations
by BAnder54
Summary: After an accident strands them, Scott and Johnny are forced to take a long walk back to the ranch. Re-post.


A/N: I'm cleaning out my files bit by bit, and don't mean to 'spam' the list here, but it's nice to have a central place for these stories to revise them as needed without a repost. And you always find things wrong when they're posted! Here's one from 2010. Thanks, Barb

"_You must walk like a camel, which is said to be the only beast which ruminates when walking." — __Walking__ by Henry David Thoreau, 1861_

Long Walks and Ruminations

A horsefly droned near his ear. Johnny waved his hand and it flew off to land on Betty's rump, a black spot on a sea of brown. He watched the mare's skin ripple, then her tail swished, catching air. He aimed the long tether of the reins and flicked, sending the fly off across the canyon.

The wagon rumbled through jerking movements going up the incline. The colors had changed steadily from the yellow adobe in town to the green of the valley way below the floor of the trail. It was almost like someone had made a mark in the ground—to the right was all city brown and on the other side…Lancer. Somehow it seemed just about right.

He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, sparing Scott a quick glance. "Good book?"

Not looking up, Scott nodded. "Very."

"So what's it about?"

"It's Thoreau, and an essay he wrote about walking."

Jiggling the reins in his hands, Johnny considered the bobbing heads of Betty and Tucker. "Take a walk? Did he mean to do that? No horses around?"

"No horses."

"Not real practical."

"I suppose not, but it got him to where he wanted to be—eventually."

Johnny angled his elbow to shoo away another fly, a fat one from Scott's thigh. "I guess that was the whole point, huh? Takin' his time, gettin' there under his own steam. Nobody fussin' over time or schedules. Sounds kinda good to me."

Scott shifted on the box seat and grinned, one finger still marking his place in the book. "Yes, it does."

The horses were coming into their traces, straining now with the full load. Johnny braced his foot against the wooden strut of the seat and leaned into the reins. He breathed in the cooler air and hunkered down into silence.

Lately, there'd been a lot of fuss over time and schedules. Given the circumstances, a man could be real envious of Mister Thoreau and his walk.

A popping noise got his attention. He and Scott turned around in time to see three hewn planks tumble off the back of the wagon. Then a fourth decided to join them.

_Dios._ He pulled up on the reins, bunching the leather into one hand.

A small sigh escaped from Scott and he placed the book back into its box under the seat, then vaulted down from the wagon. He slipped and slid on loose rock to the fallen boards, hugging the side wall of the wagon. Stopping to view the valley below, he wiped the back of his hand across his brow and shook his head.

"At least we didn't lose any over the edge."

Johnny heard the scrapes of wood against rock—and a muffled curse.

"You could come down and help, you know."

"This whole thing would be solved by the old man shilling out a few pennies to make his own mill." Johnny set the brake good and tight, pushing it forward with his left foot, and tied off the reins.

"Amen. It would be a wise investment. Especially since we spent half the day doing nothing."

Bumping up a board with his foot, Johnny floated one end to his brother.

A sly half-smile came to Scott's lips. "How was Amanda, anyway?"

"Real good." Johnny paused and considered. "You know she has a friend. A friend of a friend, really."

Scott's mouth tightened and he gave the timber an extra hard shove into the wagon.

"Just got home from back east, too. Some fancy school for girls."

"And I'm sure she has a wonderful personality."

"Mandy said she could squawk a crow off a barn roof a half-mile away." He made curving motions in the air. "But she cuts a fine figure in all the right places."

"And why do you think I'd be interested?

"I don't know you well enough to figure out what you like, Scott. But those books gotta be a little tirin' all the time."

Scott hauled up the last board and waved a yellow-gloved hand at him. "Johnny, I've been ducking well-meaning relatives and match-ups between friends of friends for a while now. I don't need any help in that regard."

"Mandy was just askin' is all."

"Besides, I like to do the looking for myself."

"Can't argue with you. Huntin' is half the fun."

"Does Mandy know that?"

Betty gave a loud, annoyed whinny, shaking her head. The wagon trembled and backed up a few inches as she rattled her harness.

Scott threw him a look. "Did you set the brake?"

"Yeah, but something's goin' on up front."

Tucker caught on to Betty's mood and bunched his haunches.

"Shit!" Johnny started to run.

The big bay half-reared, coming down with a bone-jarring thud that shook the wagon. Betty's rump swung out, her hoof striking the tongue. It splintered and Johnny heard a sickening crunch of wood against metal as it twisted free and the wagon started to roll backwards.

Johnny dove for the horses, his arm going around the hames on Betty's collar. She swept her head to the side flinging froth. He twisted, but Betty caught him on the downswing, snapping his jaw closed. Sharp points of white light blurred out his vision. Chest heaving, he dropped to the ground, barely noticing the bite of pain running down his leg as Betty sidestepped over him, clipping him with her hoof.

He rolled away as the two horses stampeded off, leaving a narrow furrow in the soft dirt between them, trailing reins and harness.

Johnny jerked his eyes to the wagon, lying halfway on its side, the contents strewn out and jumbled like so many matchsticks.

_Scott._

He couldn't see him anywhere.

Johnny fixed his gaze on the contents of the wagon, looking for any hint of the white shirt Scott was wearing. He staggered up and caught himself, stayed that way for a second, then swayed toward the remnants.

Teresa's bolt of sky-blue fabric was unfurled, one tail end flapping against the wheel. Thoreau lay open, half-spilled out of the box, its leather cover slit from top to bottom. Oaken boards stood at odd angles here and there, a few broken off and splintered. And underneath it all was—_nothing._ Johnny rubbed the sweat from his temple and limped to the side of the trail.

He peered over the edge, following a chaotic pattern left in the loose shale until his eyes rested on the bit of color halfway down the hill. The white stood out like a beacon against the grey.

Johnny hurried over the edge. A cloud of dust billowed out behind him as he made his way, half-sliding down the gentle slope. His right leg buckled under the slippery rocks and he rolled, tumbling a short way. He was unsteady coming up, every beat of his heart echoing the thumps inside his head. Looking downward, he saw Scott hadn't moved despite the pelting of rocks loosened up by Johnny's boots.

Something bumped up against his toe. It was a leather glove, folded in on itself and marred with spots of brown. He found himself yelling, the sound of his voice coming out odd—thin and airy—against the roaring of blood in his ears.

Scott was wedged face downward on a spare outcrop, limp and still. His upper body was twisted with one shoulder pulled underneath. The only visible hand still had a glove on it. One long leg was angled up to hip level, the other stretched out behind.

There was blood on the shirt and smeared across the cheek that faced him. Johnny wiped his hand off on his jeans then pressed two shaky fingers to Scott's neck. The pulse he searched for was there—weak, but still beating. He let go a sigh of relief when Scott moved.

"…go…back…"

Johnny inched closer on his knees. "What?"

Scott opened his eye—dirt-rimmed and wild-looking. "...get…off..."

He felt the tiniest of shudders roll through his knees as shale began to slither away under the toes of his boots.

Johnny grabbed two fistfuls of white shirt and pulled, sending a shaft of fire pulsing through his thigh and hip. The ledge gave one more heave, and crumbled beneath his legs. And then there was nothing at all.

~#~#~#~

"Johnny."

Something poked him. It moved again, right under his back.

"Wake up."

"Wha…?"

"Get off my leg."

Johnny's eyes flickered open. The light left over from the day was harsh and made his brain seize up inside his skull. He squinted over his left shoulder. "Scott?" Holding as still as possible, he forced his eyes open and found himself looking up into the eyes of his brother.

"Are you all right?"

Johnny edged to a sitting position and cradled his head in one palm, struggling to recall the fall down the hill. "You scared the piss out of me."

Scott shuffled his heels in closer and put one hand underneath to boost himself up. He got halfway before sitting back down again. Johnny couldn't help much, not with his skull pounding. He clenched his eyes shut against the light and pressed the heel of his hand harder against his temple. Then cracked them open when Scott swatted him on the arm.

"I tried to warn you."

"Shit, it's not that, I thought you were dead."

"Well, I'm not." Scott rubbed his chest in slow circles. "Yet, anyway."

Looking through slits, Johnny saw his brother was grey beneath all the dirt and his breathing wasn't coming easy. He took his own ragged breath.

"Just as well, that'd be awful hard to explain to Murdoch. It's bad enough we have to tell' im about the horses gettin' loose. And the wagon."

"Did we lose it all?"

Johnny dipped his eyes. "Yeah. I think the new corral will have to wait." He lowered his hand to his thigh, sneaking two fingers in through the hole in his jeans left by Betty's hoof. Moving them apart, the rip widened enough that Johnny could see the long cut, oozing dark blood. "How'd you get down on that ledge anyway?

"Teresa's fabric. Caught me square in the chest and…" His hand arced out. "Off I went."

"You're bleeding."

Scott shook his head. "Just scratches."

Johnny blinked away his blurred vision. He stuck a finger into the opening of Scott's torn shirt and pulled the linen away. A mass of dark purpling ran across Scott's chest down to his waist.

"Ribs?"

"Broken, I think." Rummaging around in his pocket, Scott pulled out a handkerchief. "Here take this. You're bleeding, too."

A wide swath of it showed dark against his jeans, almost down to his boot. Johnny took it and made a tight wrap around his thigh, biting back a hiss of pain.

"You've also got some up there." Scott motioned to his own hairline.

Fingering the big knot near his forehead, his fingers came away sticky and red. So that's why he had an anvil pounding away like a son-of-a-bitch inside his skull. "Betty and I butted heads, before it all went to hell."

He cast a glance to the top of the hill.

Scott's voice was firm. "We aren't going back that way."

The set of the sun was low against the horizon. It would be nightfall in another hour or so. And he didn't like the thought of wandering around in the dark.

"What about goin' around instead?"

~#~#~#~

"It's getting late."

Teresa's voice startled him. A bundle of wildflowers, all yellow and red, was held in her arms. Murdoch didn't know the names of them all. But he knew there weren't any roses in the bunch.

"It'll be time to eat pretty soon."

He looked past the forge at the sun, set lower in the sky than he remembered, and sighed. The corral wasn't going to be fixed today.

"Should I hold dinner?"

Laying down the hammer, he took off his thick gloves and found Teresa watching him. "We'll go ahead. Maybe they ran into some problems with the lumber."

"Or they stopped to get a drink at the saloon. And Scott would want to check on his shipment from Boston. Maybe Johnny went to see Amanda at the mercantile. He's a little sweet on her, I think."

Murdoch cocked an eyebrow at his ward. _Where in heaven did she get all that from? _

"Anyway, I'm sure they're all right."

"Are you trying to stop me from worrying?"

She smiled and shrugged. "Is it helping?"

He broke into a smile, one he didn't feel. "We'll give them a little more time yet. They're probably still on the road."

Teresa pointed with her elbow to a rider coming in through the east gate. "Maybe Isidro has seen them."

The vaquero rode up to the watering trough on his black dun. The big animal danced in place while Isidro dismounted and tied him off. Taking a hatful of water, he poured it over his head and neck, straightening when Murdoch strode over to him.

"Any sign of Scott and Johnny on their home?"

"No, Patron. But I came in from the west."

Teresa's shoulders slumped and she gathered her flowers closer. "I guess I'll start dinner then. And keep a couple of plates back to keep warm." She turned and walked towards the house, trailing a few yellow heads here and there.

Isidro kept his voice low. "Is there trouble?"

Murdoch filtered a hand through his hair. "No, they just haven't returned from town yet."

A smile played about the vaquero's mouth. "The father, he worries?"

"No…yes. Errant children."

"There are a lot of things in town to hold a young man's fancy." Isidro chuckled.

"Even so…"

"It's been too long since you worried about them."

Startled, Murdoch realized the man was right. It had been far too long.

~#~#~#~

One hour and all the further they'd gotten was half-way through the canyon. If he looked back he could probably still see the spot where they landed on their asses at the bottom of the hill. Deciding it wasn't worth the effort, Johnny concentrated on the path ahead, putting one foot in front of the other.

Scott's shoulders hunched. One arm was held tight against his belly, the other fending off the oak and aspen runners pulling at his boots and trousers. "This isn't…working...so well. I've got to sit down for a minute."

_Gracias a dios_. "It's about damn time. I was done a half-mile back."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Well, I am now. We're in for the night, yeah?"

Scott nodded and slumped into a bent half-sit against a tree trunk. Johnny, feeling a little woozy and lightheaded, slid in next to him. He listened to Scott's harsh breaths until they finally settled into a regular rhythm.

"Don't let anyone tell you you're not hard-headed, Scott."

"Likewise. We earned it honestly enough."

Lifting his head, Johnny squinted up through one eye. "How's that?"

"Murdoch."

_The old man._ Johnny settled deeper into the crook of the tree root. As the throb of his leg quieted, he wondered if Murdoch was even getting worried yet.

It was full on night when he opened his eyes again. For one disorienting minute, he thought he was back at the ranch, and Murdoch was telling him to wake up. If anyone were to ask, he would swear Maria's buñuelos were frying on the stove.

Pushing up to an elbow, he glanced about the clearing. Scott was sitting upright, his head tipped downwards. At first, Johnny thought he was asleep, but then he moved, propping his cheek up against the knuckles of a curled fist. The strain was evident, even in the dark. Angled in the moonlight, his face was shiny with sweat. Scott's eyes opened and seemed to focus. His voice—full of rasp—broke the quiet.

"Are you awake?"

"For all the good it is. We're still out in the middle of nowhere." Pain was coming back in waves. His leg muscles twitched under the handkerchief. Fingering the bandage, he felt a few damp spots, but more dry than wet. The cut had stopped bleeding somewhere along the way. Rolling to the side, he hitched himself up higher against the trunk. "It was good in my dreams. Full of cinnamon fritters and soft beds."

"Nice. Send some over here when you get the chance."

Johnny slid his eyes closed. "Scott, did you ever wonder?"

"About what?"

"Murdoch."

There was a good length of silence and Johnny opened his eyes. "Scott?"

"I did for a long while. Then stopped when other things became more important. Since coming here, I've found myself thinking about him—and a lot of other things—again."

"My mama wasn't too happy with Murdoch Lancer. And she let me know it. Guess I believed everything she said at the time. Didn't know any better. Then I got older. Murdoch grew bigger and bigger in my mind, until it crowded out everything else."

"What happened?"

"My pistol. Got too busy to think about it anymore. Then Mexico came along and it all came back again. That thousand dollars looked mighty good, but the chance to see Murdoch in the flesh and look' im in the eye? Well, that was worth a whole lot more."

He thought back to two days ago when he and Murdoch argued over breaking the new mustangs. But by the time Murdoch was picking him up out of the corral wreckage, all Johnny heard was concern in the old man's voice. Turned out his father was right. "Sometimes with him ridin' herd so much…"

"…it's hard to think about that equal partnership?"

"Yeah. He can sure fuss." Johnny looked up. "You seem to take it in pretty good."

He saw a flash of white teeth in the darkness. "It's different with me. I've had a lot of practice in knowing when, and where, to pick my battles. But it doesn't mean I'm complacent."

"What?"

"Satisfied."

"I don't get that from you. In fact, I've seen a whole lot of times, when you weren't. Why'd you come out here anyway?"

"Curiosity. I wasted more than a few years being angry. Fueled, in part, by my Grandfather. The myth of the man became too great to ignore. That coupled with the intrigue of a thousand dollar bribe—well, it was enough to get me here."

"What about stayin'?"

Scott shifted, bringing one knee up under him and leaning to his good side. "It's been interesting."

"That's not really an answer."

"It's a placeholder for the real answer."

"And that is?"

"I don't know." He exhaled a noisy breath. "What about you?"

"I kind of like to see all the cards thrown on the table before I make a done deal. And maybe they aren't all turned over yet."

"When will you know?"

"Hard tellin'."

But more got played out every day. Some were high cards. Like his brother. He'd been around enough men to weed them out. Although he couldn't figure out what drove Scott, he did know that his brother dealt a fair deal—he was a good man. And that was enough for now.

As different as night and day, but they did share a few things in common—Murdoch in particular—and now Lancer.

Quiet ruled as he tried to find a spot of comfort against the old tree. A stone found its way into Johnny's fingers and he rubbed the smooth surface until it became warm in his hand. "I wonder if ole Murdoch is seein' anyone on the side. You ever think about it?"

Scott's soft snort echoed across the clearing. "No. And you shouldn't, either."

"You don't think he's got a filly stashed in town somewhere? I mean he was in an awful hurry to get rid of us this morning."

"Johnny, he was upset after you ran that mustang into the corral fence and brought the whole side of it down."

"That grulla was a mean bastard, all right. But I think it started before that. Remember the other day with all those cows in Teresa's rose garden?"

"That wasn't my fault. The cattle were spooked by a snake."

Johnny grinned in the night. "Don't matter. You were standin' right by' em. Lookin' guilty as hell, too."

Scott ran a hand over his face. "God, no wonder he sent us to town. He doesn't have a woman; he just wants to get some peace and quiet."

"Yeah, I guess we can be a handful at times. You think he's ever sorry he brought us here?"

"I have no idea." The words were quiet and a little wistful around the edges.

"We did get rid of Pardee for him."

"For us."

"Well, yeah. Us."

Scott's leg moved out again, accompanied by a stifled groan. "I remember what you said in my bedroom that first day…about paper burning. But Johnny, you signed the partnership anyway."

"Yeah, I did. And as I recall, you put a pen to the paper, too, Scott. So what does that mean?"

"I guess that means we're obligated."

"Then maybe you oughta think a little more about stickin' around."

Johnny couldn't pin down when it happened—maybe it had started at the lawyer's office. All in all, it surprised the hell out of him, because in some remote way, he'd begun to think of Lancer as _home_.

~#~#~#~

Murdoch rolled over and punched his pillow, the book he'd been reading fell to the braided rug with a muted thud. As the grandfather clock in the hallway reminded him with each chime, he wasn't making any headway on sleep.

He didn't know why he just didn't get rid of the damn thing. Except for the fact that Catherine had insisted on hauling it out west. She didn't find the broken finials under the tarp until Denver. He pursed his lips, remembering the mistake of waiting to tell her until the time was right.

That was one mistake he didn't ever make again.

But the methodical ticks of the clock hands hadn't been so apparent the last two months, if noticed at all. Ever since Johnny and Scott had made their way home.

It was pointless to worry about his grown-up sons.

Isidro brought amazing clarity—it had been so long since he allowed himself to think of them in _any_ way that when the worry came back, the full force of it soured his stomach. No, they were adults. And they would be treated like adults.

_Liar._

Didn't he manage to lose his temper at Johnny for ruining the corral fence? And those damn cows in the yard. The image of a sheepish Scott slapping his gloves against his thigh and biting back words—after the hands had finished prodding him—still lingered in his mind.

And then there was the—uncertainty. God knows he'd felt it more than enough times over the years. First with Catherine, then with Maria. Now his two sons brought it into the house once more. _Would he lose them—again?_

He swung his feet over the side of the bed and padded to the window. Waning moonlight flooded the courtyard, but there was movement below. He reached for his pants folded over the back of the chair and pulled them on.

When he opened the front door, Carl Grayson stood before him, holding the reins of Betty and Tucker.

"Sorry to get you out of bed this early in the morning, Murdoch. I found these two trying to get into my barn. Figured you'd want to know, all harnessed up—it looks like they'd gone missing. Found a tore up wagon tongue in one of my ditches, too."

Isidro, pulled from his bed halfway put together, took the reins from Grayson. He fidgeted with the leather in his hands. "I'll get the men ready, Patron."

At his nod, the old vaquero led the team off, shouting for lanterns and horses.

"Murdoch?" Carl shifted his weight from one leg to another.

"Scott and Johnny were driving that team to town. They haven't arrived back home yet. I thought maybe they stayed in town for the night."

Grayson frowned, his gaze lingering on the two horses being led into the barn before shifting to Murdoch. "I'll join the search party."

Murdoch reached over and clasped Carl's hand in a firm grip. But his mind was elsewhere…where were his sons?

~#~#~#~

The second time Johnny woke up it was almost dawn and he was alone. For one frantic moment he thought Scott had taken off, until he heard rustling in the bushes. He looked toward the noise and Scott was hobbling through them. His lips had narrowed out to a thin line, the angles of his face more pronounced.

"You look like shit."

Scott cocked his eyebrow. "Not any different than how I feel. And you should find a mirror."

He made to get up then found he couldn't put weight on his leg—his knee wouldn't bend. Scott put out a hand, but Johnny waved him off. "I'd bring us both down and we'd never get out of this canyon." Instead, he half-shimmied up the tree trunk.

Standing up reminded him of all the places he hurt. And worse, his vision started to spin when the anvil took up practice in his head again.

"Are you all right?" Scott's big hand planted against his chest, pinning him upright against the bark.

"I will be just as soon as you quit movin' around."

"Then we're in trouble."

Johnny swung his head around to face him. "Why?"

"Because I'm not moving."

He waited a while, just breathing, until things settled. "All right, get off. I can make it myself."

Scott stepped aside but stayed close. "I don't know about you, but if Murdoch came around the corner right now with two horses, I wouldn't be unhappy."

"No more long walks?"

"There's a time and place, Brother. And this is neither."

Johnny drew in a sudden breath and nodded. "We'd better get goin' then."

Dawn gave way to a sunny morning and shadows rippled underneath the trees where he and Scott were walking. Neither of them spoke. Like himself, he knew Scott was hurting, but his gut said to press on.

"Hey, you never told me why Thoreau went on that walk through the woods."

Scott stopped and turned around. Slouched over, pure puzzlement showed on his face. "What are you talking about?" It would have been comical except Scott was looking grey again.

"Well, what did he find?"

Leaning against a low-hanging boulder, his brother scraped a hand across his forehead. It was a gesture that said he was thinking of an answer.

"I guess I don't know. I was interrupted at the good part." A wisp of a smile appeared, then disappeared just as quickly. "Nature? Himself?"

Johnny could understand. It was fine to be by yourself sometimes—but not for too long. He limped up and perched on the rock beside Scott, stretching out his leg. "Sounds kind of lonely out in the woods by himself."

Scott huffed out a breath and shrugged. "Sort of freeing in a way. Not having to answer to anyone except yourself. Deciding how far you want to go in a day's time."

He shook his head. "I've had that life—it's good for a while. But then you start to think about what you're missin', or could've had. And it don't look so pretty after all."

His view shifted off the path to the canyon walls. They were steadily going higher. The real trail was close now; maybe Murdoch would be waiting for them.

He tapped Scott on the shoulder. "Can I borrow that book when you're done with it? I want to see how it ends."

"If I can ever find it again, it's yours."

That Thoreau had it all wrong, Johnny thought. Sometimes a little obligation was a good thing. Like belonging somewhere or to someone. Truth was he kind of liked the feeling.

~#~#~#~

The sharp keen of a killdeer made Murdoch turn in the saddle. There were two birds, both skimming the grassy meadow in a running half-flight, the black bands around their necks bobbing up and down with jerking movements. They were protecting a nest, he realized, leading something on a false trail.

He followed their erratic movements for a while, watching. It was then he saw the out-of-place color.

Scott was first to stumble out of the canyon lip, his white shirt flashing in the sun. Murdoch followed the wave of color until it dipped below a rise, then his eyes flitted back to the canyon's edge. Johnny came next, almost dragging his right leg, each footfall measured and slow.

He swung his horse around and pointed. "There they are! Cipriano, Frank…find the wagon, and tell Josh to hurry." The whoops and hollers of the crew scalded his ears, but Murdoch had already put heels to Toby.

By the time he reached them, the boys had stopped near an ancient poplar tree. He yanked on the reins, bringing his horse up short.

From Toby's saddle, Murdoch studied Scott. His face was filthy, streaked with dirt and sweat. Pale and exhausted, he listed where he stood, one arm clenched around his middle.

Johnny wasn't any better. Flushed with heat, a dirty bandage encircled his thigh—and blood had stained his pants leg down to the boot.

Sweat ran down Murdoch's back. _At least they're alive. _He swung down from saddle, followed by Isidro, and threw his reins to Grayson.

He went to the closest and pulled Johnny's arm around his shoulder, helping him to the shade. Johnny was shaking a bit, the warmth pouring through his thin shirt.

Johnny peered at him with one good eye. "You're just in time, old man. 'Bout given up on you."

"Now that would have been a foolish thing to do."

He stood back as Isidro helped Scott under the canopy of the tree, watching his son's careful movements. His shirt gaped open, showing Murdoch a few pieces of the story.

Isidro clucked his tongue in sympathy. "Lo que sucedió Juan?"

As Johnny spoke in quiet Spanish, Murdoch could see the events in his mind, falling into place like so many puzzle pieces. The slip of a brake, the unruly horses. Scott pushed over the side of the canyon, them both falling to the bottom. He shuddered.

Murdoch pulled Scott's shirt aside and let out a short gasp. Purple, almost black, bruises crisscrossed his chest. Scott's hand came up to rest on top of his and Murdoch felt a quick flex before it was pushed away.

"I'm all right Murdoch. And it's probably not as bad as Johnny makes it out to be."

"You understand what they're saying?"

"I've picked up a few words here and there, with help." He turned to look at Johnny. "Mostly the ones not repeatable in polite company."

Johnny flashed a quick grin from his seat under the tree. "Now when was I ever accused of bein' polite?"

Prattle—so much talk between brothers. Murdoch listened in and felt his heart ease.

Josh and the wagon trundled up, spitting dirt and gravel in its wake. Murdoch supervised as Scott and Johnny were helped to their feet by Frank and Isidro.

The loss of the lumber meant he still didn't have a corral fence, and the hard-earned money for supplies was lost. Yet as he watched his sons get settled into the bed of the wagon, Murdoch smiled a full toothy grin.

Somehow those troubles seemed trivial enough.

The End

Original: 09/2010

Revised: 11/2013


End file.
